


Psmith Pops In

by KannaOphelia



Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Airy persiflage is no substitute for communication, Awkward Sex, Clothed Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Happy Ending, Lots and lots of Pining, M/M, Pining, Set near the beginning of Psmith in the City, Some unavoidable talk of cricket, They love each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:21:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28262307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia
Summary: Psmith reached over and solicitously loosened Mike's scarf, his fingers brushing the skin of Mike's neck, and that young man, to his horror, felt heat creeping up from where gloved fingers brushed his bare skin. Really, this blushing nonsense was getting out of hand. Ever since Psmith had tried to take the blame in the case of the painted dog, Mike had developed an inexplicable habit of turning hot and cold around him, and these odd responses had become more and more frequent.
Relationships: Mike Jackson/Rupert Psmith
Comments: 20
Kudos: 57
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Psmith Pops In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/gifts).



"Well," Psmith said, clearly delighted with himself, "I think it is safe to say I have almost reached terms with the gear changing _and_ steering."

Mike tore off his goggles and hung over the side of the Smith family motor, gasping for air. "I don't know if that cow agrees." The Shropshire countryside seemed to be undulating up and down, and every bone in his body ached.

"Barely a graze, and think what a story she will have to tell her grand-calves." Psmith adjusted his driving gloves. "A great green dragon, ridden by a youth of god-like manly beauty—that's you, Comrade Jackson, I don't aspire to be more than Thamyris to your Hyacinthus—and only her swift wit and swifter hooves allowed her to escape to safety. Fleet as Atalanta, she proved herself, light-footed as Hermes."

"You'll have to be as fleet as Atalanta yourself if that farmer tells your father you've put his prize dairy cow off her milk," warned Mike, recovering his sensibilities a little. He was aware of the danger of letting Psmith expound interrupted, and he wasn't keen on being late to his first visit to Psmith's people. He wanted quite desperately to make a good impression on them, for reasons he had not closely examined.

"Possibly, possibly, if the incident put the bovine lady off her bowling. Otherwise, I'm sure an open-minded man would gladly sacrifice peaceful relations with his neighbours in the endeavour of science. Is not the touring motor the pinnacle of science and engineering? Is she not the most magnificent, the most beautiful..."

"I don't care if you want to marry the blasted contraption, Smith, I want a drink."

"My poor boyhood friend, how quickly your decline in dissipation has begun. Only a few tender months out from public school, and already falling prey to the demon drink. What shall become of young people today, they shall ask in the columns of the Times? Sherry and cricket are all they care about, the decadent young people of this degenerate day."

Mike groaned.

Psmith pushed his driving goggles onto his forehead and replaced his eyeglass, scrutinizing Mike through it. "Why, you are unwell. You may not be aware, but you are taking on a delicate tinge of chartreuse." He reached over and solicitously loosened Mike's scarf, his fingers brushing the skin of Mike's neck, and that young man, to his horror, felt heat creeping up from where gloved fingers brushed his bare skin. Really, this blushing nonsense was getting out of hand. Ever since Psmith had tried to take the blame in the case of the painted dog, Mike had developed an inexplicable habit of turning hot and cold around him, and these odd responses had become more and more frequent. Fortunately, Psmith seemed not to have noticed these lapses, or at least was too benevolent to draw attention to them.

"Perhaps," Psmith said kindly, "your kippers at breakfast disagreed with your fragile constitution. Or perhaps you are taking deathly ill. If so I, your devoted boyhood companion, or at least of your final term of boyhood, will remain at your side, mopping your bedewed forehead. I am at least," he continued, swinging in his stately way over the door of the motor, "grateful to have been of service in easing your nausea. A pleasant spin in the fresh air was clearly the best remedy. I am grateful to be of service."

Some things were not to be spoken aloud. Mike, never handy with his words in the best of cases, didn't say them. Instead, he glared balefully after Psmith's retreating form.

Then, despite himself, his gaze softened and the heat crept up his neck again. Psmith's driving costume was, as habitual with that elegant youth, exquisitely tailored, but his pongee silk driving coat was loose and cloaked his figure. Just why that should have such markedly different effect to the sight of Psmith in equally well cut public school trousers or cricket whites was a puzzle Mike was not willing to tackle. It was however true that the sight of Psmith's long legs emerging from under the duster gave him a distinctly odd feeling, that was not quite admiration. Perhaps it was that he looked so very grown-up in his motoring gear.

Of course, he was a grown-up now, and so was Mike. Perhaps they were not yet of age, but their school days were over, and with them, their childhood. It was a strange and uncomfortable thought.

Psmith returned a moment later, looking placidly pleased with himself, his gloves tucked in a pocket and his hands cupped. "There. I thought I heard the merry bubble of a tinkling stream. Let me refresh your tired brow."

Water-cold fingertips stroked over Mike's brow, spreading icy water on the overheated skin. Psmith's fingers were gentle and soothing, and Mike should have felt cooler. Instead, Mike felt distinctly warmer. Psmith was awfully close. The aquiline nose was nearly bumping Mike's less interesting one, and Mike could have sworn he could feel breath on his cheek.

There was no one like Psmith, Mike thought confusedly. This was not in fact an original thought. Many people, on making Psmith's acquaintance, thought to themselves that there was no one like him. Mike's eccentricity lay in not mentally adding the words _thank heavens_ after it.

"You don't suppose you really are taking a fever?" Psmith asked doubtfully.

"Don't worry. I'll be fighting fit for cricket," Mike said, hastily pulling away. "Can we get on?"

Psmith hummed doubtfully, but between the two of them, they got the motor out of the ditch and onto the road, and were soon jolting and shaking their way through the glorious Shropshire countryside once more.

*

"Is all well?"

Mike pulled himself out of a confused dream, which tried to pull him back in. Flowers had featured heavily, and cricket balls, and for some reason Psmith leaving off the top half of his whites to display a narrow and surprisingly lovely chest, but Mike couldn't look properly because a cow kept walking in front of the screen.

"Do you require a teddy-bear or a warm cup of cocoa? I'm afraid I cannot supply Comrade Jellicoe's cheerful presence if you are pining for him, but I can attempt a reasonable facsimile of his musical snoring. You need only say the word."

"Smith." Mike turned his head to look out the window to see only stars, and then back to where he could dimly perceive Psmith perched next to his pillow wearing a dressing gown and an amiable smile. "What kind of hour do you call this?"

"Three in the morning. I regret if I am tardy in popping in on you, but I was thinking deep thoughts."

"So I suppose you've come to tell me them," Mike said wrathfully. "I thought you were joking."

"I never jest, Comrade Jackson. Mine is a grave and solemn nature. You should know that by now."

Psmith, however, seemed disinclined to follow through with any deep thoughts. Sleep had flown beyond recovery, and Mike sighed and shuffled aside on the bed to make room, lifting the covers. "I suppose you're pining for a shared dormitory."

"I allow that I am unused to hearing only my own breathing at night. Perhaps I should invest in an asthmatic kitten." Psmith settled down on the bed next to him, and Mike heaved the light summer covers over them both.

"Was Jellicoe the kitten, or was I?"

Psmith didn't answer, which in itself was deeply concerning. Psmith failing a clear invitation to air his thoughts was a bit like unexpectedly discovering the points of the compass had changed themselves. Perhaps, having company at last, he had fallen asleep. Mike turned to look at him and found Psmith's face uncomfortably close to his. If Mike turned on his side and leaned over just a little, his nose would brush Psmith's cheek, which might be slightly stubbled, Psmith being unlikely to shave before bed. Mike found himself unreasonably interested in that thought, and what it would feel like.

Perhaps inviting him into bed had been a mistake. Sharing a dormitory and sharing a bed were, Mike was suddenly supremely conscious, entirely different propositions. In the dormitory, he had never felt the heat of Smith's lean body next to his own, the press of a slender thigh next to his muscular one. Felt his heart hammer in his chest like it was Mount Vesuvius.

Psmith was motionless, which wasn't particularly unusual with that young man. He didn't seem to see the point in expending energy except when needed, and languorously as that. But he was both awake and wordless, an unusual combination. Something was up, and it seemed down to Mike to draw out what it was.

"Are you worried? About that blighter Bickersdyke spoiling your chances of going up to the 'Varsity, I mean."

"You met my father. Anything is possible." Psmith stared at the ceiling. "Do you, personally, wish for my presence at King's by your side?"

Mike thought about all the almost unthinkable things he could say, and settled for, "Wouldn't be half as fun without you. No one like you for livening up a place. But surely there's hope still? Your father seems like a decent chap. Barking mad, of course, but he _is_ your pater."

Psmith brightened. "I suppose there is hope, indeed. My father's heart is softened by your skill on the pitch, and perhaps if you added your pleas to mine, we will not be separated. I have always, as you know, been hampered by my lack of eloquence. There is something in your stout and honest nature, Comrade Jackson, which the Smith family is powerless to resist."

"Rot."

"That's all well, then. Having been joined by fate and Barlitt, our hands will not readily be parted. The lost lambs will find a new fold together."

Mike had begun to drift off, when Psmith said, "Would you miss me?"

The directness of it startled Mike awake. Psmith was not known for speaking simply. There was something in his tone that Mike felt simultaneously afraid of and which sent a great longing rush through him. Psmith sounded almost fragile.

The tone seemed to require an equally plain answer."Yes. I jolly well would." It should have still been enough, but there was a weight of expectation pressing him, Psmith still looking at the ceiling. It was an effort to get the words out, the import feeling far greater than the situation warranted, but he said, "Can't very well do without you, can I?"

He turned, to see what Psmith could possibly be thinking of, and Psmith turned at the same moment, and somehow, Mike supposed, their mouths collided. There was no possible other explanation as to how their lips had met with such preternatural accuracy. Mike froze, and Psmith froze too, and of course, the thing to do was to pull back and pretend it had never happened, or pass it off with a laugh. He intended to do that, he really did. He did _not_ intend to press clumsy kisses over Psmith's mouth, pull him on top of him, hook his legs around the back of Psmith's legs to hold him close.

Psmith was making _sounds_ , little breathless moaning sounds, but he wasn't pulling away, he was returning the kisses. His were less clumsy; Psmith was never clumsy, graceful in everything, even in this, the nonsensical pushing of lips against lips, as if Mike could press his mouth right into Psmith's, ease this terrible pull in his berry by pulling Psmith's lower lip with his own. His hands came up and caught in Psmith's hair as if he could pull his face even closer, and that was good, too, the thick silk of it between his fingers.

It suddenly seemed like the most important thing in the world that Psmith keep making those strange, un-Psmithlike whimpers, and that they should get as near to each other as humanly possible. Mike's hips were moving as if of their own accord, pressing up, chasing closeness, and Psmith gave a kind of sob and bore down as well. Mike was hard, and straining, and he had no attention left for shame, not caught up in these overwhelming sensations. His hips were rolling up and meeting similar heat, maddeningly trapped away from him by layers of clothes, but he couldn't spare the attention to free them.

Psmith was grinding down in response, their kisses missing each other's mouth as often as not as they thrust together, Mike's arms clinging desperately around Psmith's back, legs trapping him. It was unbearable, it was beautiful, it was the most dreadful and wonderful thing Mike had ever experienced.

 _He's mine_ , he thought, as much as he could still form thoughts. _Let him be mine, because I'm his, and I can't bear it otherwise._

He spoke for the first time, as his hips rolled, choked it against Psmith's neck. "I'll stick with you."

Psmith cried out, a wild surprised kind of sound, and then sobbed, hips stuttering hard, falling limply against him.

" _Mike_ ," Psmith breathed. It was that, his first name from those beloved lips, which finished Mike off, gasping wordlessly as he made a mess of his pyjama trousers, shaking and clinging as Psmith held him through it, clutched him close in what felt like protective arms. Loved. He felt loved.

"Smith," he said vaguely, wondering if he should call him _Rupert_ to answer the _Mike_. But Psmith detested his Christian name, and _Eustace_ was even more impossible, so he said "Smith, Smith," again and felt like he could actually feel and hear the elusive _P_ at the beginning. "What did we just do?"

Psmith was out of the bed in a whirl of long arms and legs, and at the door before Mike could push himself all the way to a sitting position. He paused at the door.

"Nothing at all. These incidents happen."

"Incidents." He couldn't think. He couldn't find any words. He was a mess, and he needed to clean himself, he was a guest and in a disgusting mess, and Psmith, Psmith should be back in the bed with him, Psmith should be in his arms while they decided what to do with this, with this overwhelming thing between them, with all these feelings. Instead, Psmith was over by the door, managing to look as supercilious in soiled pyjamas as he would in a suit and monocle.

"Not to me," he forced out. It's never happened to me before."

"I know. It won't happen again." For just a moment Psmith looked anguished, looked human. Just for a moment. Then his eyes resumed the glassiness they assumed at moments of intense boredom. "Your friendship really does mean the world to me, Comrade Jackson." The door closed behind him.

Mike lay there, feeling that he really would have preferred to be punched in the gut.

*

It took all his courage to go down for breakfast. Psmith was alone at the table, and reading, and something hot and painful and desperately sweet welled up in Mike. Perhaps it wasn't too late. Perhaps he could go put his arms around those narrow shoulders, and have it out. Whatever having it out meant, whether it was a fight he was by no means assured of winning--he was an athletic young man, but Psmith was scientific in his punches--or to kiss the life out of him, a thought that made Mike's knees feel unbearably like they were constructed of blancmange. It was unbearable that they not come to some kind of terms after the night before.

No matter how much Mike might want to funk it, he had never been a coward.

Psmith, however, monocle screwed firmly in place, looked up cheerfully from his newspaper. "Take a seat, take a seat. There are ample sources of nutrition under those covers on the board. It seems that Comrade Bickersdyke is an early riser, as befits a giant of industry, so we are to be spared his presence while we digest. I frankly admit it is something of a relief. Nothing like the prospect of a lecture on the virtues of starting at the bottom to spoil one's appreciation of bacon, and I tell you, after a term at school, Joan's bacon is nothing to sneeze at."

Mike sank into his seat, the wind taken out of him.

"Still under the weather, old chap? Wouldn't have thought it, the way you batted yesterday. Hark at the rain, though. There will be nothing going today. You just sit there, and I will serve you like the perfect host I am."

So that was how they were to play it. As if nothing had happened. Mike supposed he was grateful. Spoiling his easy companionship with Psmith would be giving up the best thing he had going. And Psmith was kind, impossibly kind, in his way. He would soothe things over gently.

These incidents happened, he told himself bitterly, remembering Psmith's words. They warned you about it in heavily vague terms when you first went to public school, about temptation and things that seemed all right but were not pure and clean. Mike hadn't had the foggiest what his brothers had been going on about, but he had nodded and agreed, and it hadn't really made sense to him until... Well, until he started noticing Psmith, propping himself up on a mantlepiece, with his gentle manner and devilish ideas. Even then it had been unclear, just a kind of unfocused longing, a pull in his belly. A tendency to redden and burn as if he had caught too much sun, and Psmith was the—no, that was a ridiculously poetic thought, and exactly where his thoughts should not be allowed to go.

Mike had been a beast last night, Mike fully realised. Had taken the worse kind of advantage. Psmith, extraordinarily loyal as he was, had let himself be carried away. If Psmith was gentleman enough not to mention it, to make it clear he was forgiven and friends still... Well. Mike's nature, inclined to gratitude as he was, ached even more violently with love at the thought.

Psmith kept up airy persiflage all breakfast, not allowing Mike to get a word in edgeways, even if he had known what to say. He was conscious of dull misery, as if everything had exploded into wonder for a while, and then had become nothing but sticky discomfort. To make things worse, summer rain had come in hard, and there was no chance of cricket and escaping conversation that way. Mike had somehow convinced himself that Psmith's entirely Varsity career depended on impressing Mr Smith at cricket, and if he didn't play up, there would be no chance of going to King's with Psmith.

Would that be a relief? Mike looked at Psmith, serene and graceful as a willow, and realised that, no, it wouldn't. Even with this terrible awkwardness between them, even aware of the disparity of their affections, he just couldn't do without Psmith, and that was the end of it. It was like agreeing to have all colour washed out of his life.

There was one dangerous moment, as Psmith was refilling Mike's tea, when Mike reached up almost against his will and came very close to laying it over Psmith's. The craving to feel his skin for one moment was almost too much to bear. But Psmith started, just a little, and Mike flinched and snatched his hand back. There was one moment in which anything could have happened or been said, and Mike felt like he was hovering on the brink of a precipice, and then Psmith stepped away and proposed to set up the board for backgammon.

"There's still the chance that my father will decide what he has in mind for my future is for me to do the rounds as a professional gambler," he confided. "In that case, it's as well to set my mind to practising, and your mind will serve as the grinding stone for my brilliance."

They played all morning, and then Psmith conveyed him into lunch, where Mike at least had the chance to sit by Mr Smith and engage him in conversation about cricket. It was of some respite. Mike was not used to feeling that it was a respite to escape Psmith's company. He had the odd feeling that Psmith was keeping him under surveyance, as if afraid of what he would say or do if left alone for a moment. At the same time, he had a terrible craving to be near Psmith, to breathe the same air as him, and he was not at all sure which of the warring emotions was more powerful. Draughts succeeded backgammon, which surely was a sign that Psmith was not in his usual form, as it was more like him to lounge around decoratively than pursue mental stimulation.

Fully three times, Mike had to stop himself from leaning across the board and capturing Psmith's hand in his. It was a beautiful hand, he thought wildly, with a wide palm and lengthy, well-kept fingers, and the last thing he should do is reach across, capture it, and find the pulse with his lips.

Visitors were expected for afternoon tea in place of cricket, and Mike finally bolted one sandwich and took the opportunity to escape to the garden room with a detective novel. He had no appetite, and he needed to think. He had never been afraid to face himself squarely, and he had to face this, too.

Instead, exhausted by emotional strain and his long night, he settled his head against the window where the rain pounded, and he went to sleep. He wasn't quite aware that it had drifted off until he heard voices.

"Who is that extraordinarily good looking fellow loitering around the place? He vanished at tea," said a female voice.

"Young Jackson, I think." The young man seemed a little put out by the _extraordinarily good looking_. "Got ninety-eight runs yesterday, so can't be all that bad," he added, as if grudgingly determined to pay his due. "Lives just over the way. Friend of young Smith. Family of cricketing prodigies, the Jacksons, and the youngest is supposed to be someone to keep an eye on."

Mike felt the unbearable agonies of one compelled to stay still and overhear good things about oneself. He felt he would rather have ants poured over himself than hear his appearance and cricketing discussed. Impossible, now, to rise from his window and reveal his presence. He just had to hope they didn't notice him.

"Oh, naturally he's handsome, if he's one of Rupert's friends. I wonder that Smith allows it in the house."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, didn't he get sent down from Eton for that kind of thing? It was all hush-hush, but people do talk."

"Apparently they do," the man said. "Really, I don't think it's quite nice for you to know about that kind of thing."

"Oh, don't be a fuddy-duddy. I have brothers, you know. The stories they tell me of some of the worst prefects..."

"I'd prefer to talk about you, if you don't mind. Come out onto the balcony; this dreadful rain has finally let up." They passed on.

Mike sat until they were quite gone, thinking of how closely he had kept in touch with boys from Wrykyn, and how different Psmith's experience must have been. The thought sent pain lancing through him, and a desperate need to protect, but also something else. It was only when he was sure the gossiping couple had fully passed on that took the chance to escape. Leaving his novel behind, he stumbled to his feet and prepared to flee. Instead, what he stumbled into was the figure of someone else who had been listening.

He righted himself quickly and stepped back. Psmith's eyes were wide and dark and dismayed, as if a final blow had come, in a white face, and his eyeglass had fallen unregarded to his chest.

"Is it true?" Mike asked. Too brutal, but he didn't know what else to say.

Psmith wetted his lower lip with his tongue. "That you are extraordinarily handsome?"

"Don't."

"It's true. There were some unfortunate letters. I took all the blame, with an unfortunate urge to chivalry. The pater was a brick, and didn't say a word about it beyond the necessary. Sedleigh, pit that it is, was supposed to be a way to start over." He was biting his lip now and it was wrong, all wrong, that Psmith of all people should be looking so vulnerable and anxious. Mike desperately wanted to fix it, but there was an agonising gnawing feeling in him as well, that made him want to scream or punch something. "I didn't intend to spoil our friendship, but I suppose it's too late for that now."

"Did you love him?"

Psmith blinked. "Love--"

"The fellow you wrote to," Mike said impatiently. Jealousy was roaring in his chest.

"You seek to excuse me corrupting others by putting it down to love?"

" _Did you love him?_ " Mike stepped forward again, half-aware that he was moving like a prize-fighter. He wouldn't have blamed Psmith for stepping back, but he didn't feel like he was in any real control of himself. "What was he like?"

Psmith didn't step back. He said, with a kind of tragic simplicity, "Not half so wonderful as you."

"Do you love _me_?"

Psmith's face crumpled, and it was all Mike needed to know. He seized Psmith's face with one hand to each side and kissed him, hard and deep. Psmith gasped, and Mike's tongue seemed to know what to do, pushing inside to where there was wetness, and heat, and desperate returning kisses, arms wrapped around his waist. Mike kissed him like he was claiming him, owning him, and Psmith kissed him like he needed Mike to breathe.

"This is not," Psmith said at last, "the wisest place to continue this conversation." Mike could feel the evidence of that pressing hot against his thigh.

"All right. Let's go back to my room. Only," Mike said, fixing Psmith with his most terrifying glare, "I love you, and you love me. We're not to deny it when we're alone. We're sticking together like glue, no matter what, and you'd better not doubt it."

It wasn't in Psmith to be meek, but there was something almost like docility in the "Yes, Comrade Jackson," as Mike bore him off. If it hadn't been, as Mike found when he glanced suspiciously at him, that a quirk to the corner of Psmith's mouth looked something like joy.


End file.
